Lady Merton, Colonist eBook

McEwen complained of having been left alone; abused
Mrs. Ginnell; vowed she had starved and ill-treated
him; and then, to Anderson’s surprise, broke
out against his son for having refused to provide him
with the money he wanted for the mine, and so ruined
his last chance. Anderson hardly replied; but
what he did say was as soothing as possible; and at
last the old man flung himself on his bed, excitement
dying away in a sulky taciturnity.

Before Anderson left his room, Ginnell came in, bringing
his accounts for certain small expenses. Anderson,
standing with his back to his father, took out a pocketbook
full of bills. At Calgary the day before a friend
had repaid him a loan of a thousand dollars. He
gave Ginnell a certain sum; talked to him in a low
voice for a time, thinking his father had dropped
asleep; and then dismissed him, putting the money in
his pocket.

“Good night, father,” he said, standing
beside the bed.

McEwen opened his eyes.

“Eh?”

The eyes into which Anderson looked had no sleep in
them. They were wild and bloodshot, and again
Anderson felt a pang of helpless pity for a dishonoured
and miserable old age.

“I’m sure you’ll get on at Vancouver,
father,” he said gently. “And I shall
be there next week.”

His father growled some unintelligible answer.
As Anderson went to the door he again called after
him angrily: “You were a d——­
fool, George, not to find those dibs.”

“What, for the mine?” Anderson laughed.
“Oh, we’ll go into that again at Vancouver.”

McEwen made no reply, and Anderson left him.

Anderson woke before seven. The long evening
had passed into the dawn with scarcely any darkness,
and the sun was now high. He sprang up, and dressed
hastily. Going into the passage he saw to his
astonishment that while the door of the Ginnells’
room was still closed, his father’s was wide
open. He walked in. The room and the bed
were empty. The contents of a box carefully packed
by Ginnell—­mostly with new clothes—­the
night before, were lying strewn about the room.
But McEwen’s old clothes were gone, his gun
and revolver, also his pipes and tobacco.

Anderson roused Ginnell, and they searched the house
and its neighbourhood in vain. On going back
into his own room, Anderson noticed an open drawer.
He had placed his pocketbook there the night before,
but without locking the drawer. It was gone,
and in its place was a dirty scrap of paper.

“Don’t you try chivvying me, George, for
you won’t get any good of it. You let me
alone, and I’ll let you. You were a stingy
fellow about that money, so I’ve took some of
it. Good-bye.”

Sick at heart, Anderson resumed the search, further
afield. He sent Ginnell along the line to make
confidential inquiries. He telegraphed to persons
known to him at Golden, Revelstoke, Kamloops, Ashcroft,
all to no purpose. Twenty-four—­thirty-six
hours passed and nothing had been heard of the fugitive.